


Somniloquy

by Shut_Up_Marius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dreams, Enjolras is learning about feelings, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pining Enjolras, R's subconscious is a traitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shut_Up_Marius/pseuds/Shut_Up_Marius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somniloquy: the act of talking in one's sleep</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>5 times Grantaire dreamt about Enjolras and 1 time Enjolras dreamt about Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somniloquy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: dreams remain mysterious even to the scientific community, so I didn't make up anything you'll read here BUT it could be utter nonsense.

1\. 

The first time Enjolras became aware that Grantaire sometimes dreamt about him was during Movie Night At Courf's (the host himself insisted on the capital letters). 

Grantaire arrived a good twenty minutes into that night's choice, The Fellowship of the Ring. Bahorel had insisted on the extended version, too. Grantaire looked exactly the way Enjolras felt: exhausted. He was disheveled the way only an abysmal bad day at work can make you look; weary and buzzing with moodiness. His entire face screamed he was so done with everything, the bags under his blue eyes so dark they looked like little raven wings. 

As for Enjolras, he had a feeling he wouldn't make it through the movie himself: he'd recently started a new job with a renowned association that focused on helping LGBTQ youths get back on their feet; some had experienced harrassment, some had been kicked out and needed help finding a place to live. Enjolras' bosses had already called him overzealous, what with all the extra hours he put in, but not giving his all wasn't even an option.

He focused back on Courfeyrac's living-room when Grantaire plopped down on the floor beside Jehan's armchair and grunted his greetings. His friends' hellos were a lot more cheerful. Nobody pried but Enjolras kept on shooting looks Grantaire's way every now and then. He'd been worrying about his friend ever since he'd announced to all of Les Amis that he'd decided to cut back on his alcohol intake, barely a month before. It had been a drastic measure that had become more than necessary.

Unfortunately, Grantaire had experienced all the symptoms of withdrawal, which his bipolar disorder only made worse. Enjolras was grateful that two members of Les Amis worked in the medical field. That way, Grantaire could go to Joly or Combeferre when things got too rough. Or one of his friends could alert them, since he didn't always reach out when he needed it the most.

Harsh as it sounded, those symptoms had been a blessing of sorts, as far as Enjolras was concerned. They had enabled him to get to know Grantaire. The real Grantaire, not the person he was when he was intoxicated. He liked the former much better than the latter, and their friendship had taken leaps in the right direction. Even though Grantaire had become more irritable for a while, and more reclusive at times, now his smiles seemed genuine and warmed Enjolras' heart.

As Enjolras had predicted when he'd assessed his friend's state, Grantaire fell asleep in no time, his head lolling to the side like a dislocated puppet's. He had the added bonus of having Jehan's hands petting his curly hair, the poet's slender fingers working wonders to eliminate the unwelcome tension. 

In the semi darkness of the living room, Enjolras could see Grantaire's eyelids flutter madly, as if something horrible were trapped behind them and trying to break out. It was nothing out of the ordinary, really. It was even the very definition of REM sleep, and yet Enjolras couldn't help but feel like something was wrong with his-

"Enjolras, for fuck's sake!" Grantaire yelled, promptly waking himself up.

Everyone about jumped out of their skin, Enjolras higher than any of the others. Marius even squeaked in terror. Jehan recovered first and started rubbing soothing circles on Grantaire's back until he came back to himself and he realised where he was,. 

"Fuck. Fuck. Oh, fuck..." Grantaire chanted quietly, his breathing slowly evening out.

In the background, the movie played on, abandoned. Enjolras should have made an effort not to stare at Grantaire, because he was obviously embarrassed and uncomfortable, but his friend's angry shout was still echoing in his head and he was perplexed. 

"I'm sorry," Grantaire mumbled loud enough to be heard over the quiet chitchat that had resumed, Les Amis' valliant attempt at faking normalcy.

"Whatever for?" Eponine asked, not unkindly. "You can't control your dreams."

"I kind of ruined the mood."

"R, you didn't. Do you want to skip back in the movie? Do you want to talk about it?"

"That would definitely ruin the mood, trust me," he scoffed as he ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Am I that insufferable, even in your dreams?" Enjolras asked, attempting a joke but also quite curious as to why it was his name Grantaire had shouted.

"You- No, that's not- You're not-," Grantaire paused, frustrated. "We... worked for the post-office, or something, and we had to deliver this very important package, and I knew the way to the building we needed to reach, but you wouldn't listen to me. You were being such a dick about it, all patronising and shit, I wanted to fucking punch you in the face."

Enjolras' mouth opened and closed a couple of times while his friends tried to stiffle their giggling. "So I AM that insufferable!"

"I still followed you, though, and guess what? It was the wrong fucking way and we ended up in a shady neighbourhood where we got mugged. I woke up right when those assholes left and I saw your bloody nose. I was so pissed; you were bleeding all over the place and you couldn't talk and why do you never listen to me?" Grantaire seemed genuinely upset.

"I'm sorry?" Enjolras offered tentatively.

"You do realise you were dreaming about Lord of the Rings, right?" Courfeyrac cackled, not bothering to be discreet about it.

"How?"

"Well, Enjolras was obviously the Frodo to your Sam."

"It's actually a pretty common thing," Combeferre jumped in. His Head Nurse voice brooked no argument. "The brain picks up on your immediate memories and reinjects them in your dreams. Scientists believe it's a way for the brain to let go of stuff it doesn't need. Of course, in your case, it also mixed in a dash of your innermost fears, like seeing one of your friends hurt. Brains are phenomenal."

There was a moment of silence while everyone absorbed the information. Enjolras' eyes never left Grantaire, though, and he could see how uncomfortable the explanation had made him. 

He cleared his throat. "So we'll never know if we delivered the package," he said.

Grantaire looked up at him and shook his head, astounded. "I just told you we were assaulted and you worry about the package. It's very you and it's exactly why we were assaulted." A hesitant smile played across his face before it suddenly dropped and he looked away. "Anyway, I think I'm going to head home, guys. I have an early start tomorrow, a shift at the gallery, and I need the rest if I don't want to risk telling some pedantic patron he's a dickhead when they start telling me all about their modern art collection. My boss wouldn't be thrilled."

Enjolras dutifully joined his friends as they laughed at Grantaire's joke. They all knew he actually liked this job as conference guide and intended on keeping it, mostly in hopes that he'd get some contacts out of it but also because the small museum allowed him to "talk about pretty things all day", as he'd put it.

He left soon after and Enjolras realised he'd never got an answer to an important question: why, out of all his friends, had it been him Grantaire had dreamt about?

 

2.

The second time it happened, the ever-changing autumn weather had struck and Grantaire was sick with the flu. "One of the very first this season, lucky you!" Joly had sympathised.

The poor soul was lying on his couch, buried under a pile of blankets, all the necessary tools for a fast recovery piled up on his coffee table, along with a bowl of soup that was now half-eaten and cold.

Apparently, it was the worst bout of flu Grantaire had experienced in over a decade and so he could barely function on his own. His alcoholism had dealt his immune system a serious blow and he tended to get sick more often, but this was just the cherry on top.

He was doing so well, though, and you could tell he was proud of his own progress, which was a feat in itself. He still went to his AA meetings, still saw his therapist, still took his medication, and he hadn't relapsed once despite the few close calls he'd had. It had been six months since his last alcoholic drink and Grantaire's outlook on life had never been more positive. 

He'd taken to painting with gusto again, and although most of his works were still too abstract for Enjolras to understand or appreciate, his friends had assured him they'd evolved, got better and less dark.

For now, however, his works in progress had been stacked against a wall of his living-room slash bedroom so his friends had more room to take care of him, as was customary in their family of sorts. 

This afternoon was Enjolras' turn. When he'd entered the apartment, Eponine had put a finger to her lips, indicating that their patient was asleep. Grantaire had been sick for a week already. It was supposed to let up anytime now, except it wasn't and Enjolras was worried. Before she left, Eponine informed him that Grantaire had eaten half a bowl of soup, but that he should try and force the rest on him when he woke up.

Enjolras had brought his laptop so he could get some work done while he monitored the artist's recovery (or its lack thereof), but with the way Grantaire tossed and turned in his sleep, he had trouble focusing on the screen. He put his laptop down on the floor by the foot of the couch where he sat, the documentary he'd elected to watch muted on Grantaire's television.

"You could've jus' asked," he heard Grantaire's groggy voice say behind him.

"I'm sorry?" Enjolras said, turning around so he could see his friend. His eyes weren't even open. "Grantaire? Are you awake?"

"Is jus'," he slurred, "ness time you feel like dancin', jus' ask." That was a 'no', then.

"Okay?" Enjolras smiled to himself. Mild delirium was the only entertaining thing about fevers, really.

Still, he got up on his knees and put his palm to his friend's forehead to check his temperature. It didn't seem any higher than an hour before but he was even sweating a little, which was a good sign according to Joly.

He picked up the damp cloth beside him and gently wiped his friend's brow. Enjolras did not, at any point, admire the line of Grantaire's throat when he tried to arch away from the cold rag. His throat didn't get dry, not at all. 

"Who did you dance with?" he murmured to distract himself.

"Mmm'pollo. Tha' purple prawn costume was 'diculous." Enjolras almost bust out laughing. "Didn't know you could tango... T'was so hot," the artist all but moaned.

Enjolras felt himself blush to the roots of his hair as his mouth opened in suprise. Not outrage... just surprise. Grantaire was dragging him through a rainbow of feelings today, none of which he cared to examine too closely, for their intensity was striking.

Now was hardly the time, is what he told himself: after all, his friend was ill, it woud have been inappropriate. Grantaire was high on a fever, he didn't know what he was saying. Besides, it was just a dream. Like Eponine had said a few months ago, you couldn't control your dreams. 

Dreams meant nothing. They were merely a way for your brain to let off steam; Enjolras remembered Combeferre's lecture. Enjolras refused to entertain the Freudian idea that dreams were the manifestation of repressed desires. It would have meant that Grantaire... It would have been ridiculous.

The artist sank into dreamless sleep after that. He didn't talk again and even calmed down some before Feuilly arrived to take his shift by their friend's side. He never even interacted with Enjolras at all.

When he was finally on his feet, a few days later, Grantaire didn't mention the dream. He probably didn't remember it. Enjolras didn't bring it up either. And if he looked up tutorials for tango lessons for beginners on YouTube, none was the wiser.

 

3.

The third time Grantaire dreamt about Enjolras was much more embarrassing because of the company they were keeping at the time and because of the dream's content.

They were gathered at Combeferre and Enjolras' flat for Cooking Night. Musichetta had started the tradition: every month, one of Les Amis invited the others over to enjoy a home-cooked meal. Her Cajun cuisine was everyone's favourite, but the conviviality was what really mattered. 

On this cold December night, it had been Combeferre's turn. Marius, Eponine, Feuilly and Cosette had all had prior engagements that night, so the cook made sure to set some of his spinach and goat's cheese lasagna aside for them. It would find them all sometime in the next couple of days.

Although he was no extraordinary cook, the head nurse's dish did its job and, afterwards, all his friends collapsed on any available surface. Joly chose the coffee table while Bahorel, Bossuet and Grantaire, more conventional, laid haphazardly on the couch. The rest of them had been more reasonable in their serving portions and weren't about to slip into a food coma so they stuck to sitting on the floor or on chairs.

"I am so, so full. I'm never eating again," Bossuet whimpered.

"Don't say that word," Grantaire winced.

"What? 'Eating'?"

"Don't. For the love of everything sacred, don't."

Those who were still conscious chuckled at their antics while Enjolras mentally remarked that Grantaire's eating habits had improved since he'd stopped his heavy drinking. He'd even put on some weight, filled out a bit... He looked healthier. He looked good; you could tell he'd started exercising again by the way his shirts stretched a bit too tight at the shoulders. 

While the comatose ones laid on the couch, the others gently pushed Joly to the floor so they could gather around the table and play a game of Ticket To Ride. Combeferre, the kind soul, fetched a blanket for his friends when Bahorel started snoring.

Jehan was about to claim a section of railway that would certainly mean he'd have the longest route on the board and win the game when every player around the table heard it.

"'Jolras, you smell so good."

All the players' head s whipped towards the artist on the couch as he sleepily draped himself over Bahorel, who had been swallowed by the blanket. Grantaire snuggled up to a corner of it, a beatific smile on his face.

"Is that the blanket that was in my room?" Enjolras asked Combeferre after he'd cleared his throat, hoping he didn't look as thrown as he felt.

"It is," the nurse replied neutrally.

"Oh my God, is it Christmas already?" Courfeyrac asked, gleeful.

"Christmas isn't for another twenty-one days," Enjolras replied mechanically, his mouth still dry.

"Okay but, are we going to talk about how Grantaire recognises the way you smell in his sleep, or? And isn't that the second time he's dreamt about you in about six months?"

Third time, really, but Enjolras wasn't about to correct Courfeyrac. "He's sleeping and dreams mean nothing so please, could we save Grantaire the embarrassment and not tell him what happened?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure he'll come up to you and tell you to your face that he thinks you smell nice," Musichetta interjected.

"You think he could-?" Enjolras interrupted himself before he could finish this sentence. 

"Could what?" Musichetta smirked. "Actually believe it or tell you to your face?"

Enjolras didn't reply. He looked at Grantaire instead, his cheek mashed against the blanket and his dark curls tumbling over his forehead. How would he react if his friend casually brought up the fact that he thought Enjolras smelt good? He got his answer when he felt the back of his neck, and then his entire face, heat up.

He liked to believe he'd be graceful about it and move on but Enjolras knew he was lying to himself. He'd probably splutter a whole lot, then squeak and flee, which just wasn't the normal reaction when a friend complimented you. A friend. Because Grantaire couldn't mean anything by it, right?

"You look thoughtful," Combeferre said, interrupting his musings.

"That's because I am."

"Thinking about Grantaire?" Jehan suggested quietly, a sly grin on his face.

"Yes."

"And how confused he makes you feel?" Courfeyrac supplied playfully.

"Yes," Enjolras answered, truthful.

"Enjol-" Courfeyrac started shouting, shaken by a full body tremor. It took Combeferre all but tackling him to the carpet, a hand over his mouth, to prevent him from waking up all their friends, Grantaire included.

Enjolras didn't dignify Courfeyrac's outburst with a response and his friends thankfully dropped the subject and resumed their game. Everyone proceeded to get owned by Jehan, as Enjolras had foreseen, and then it was time to wake up the sleepyheads. Enjolras conveniently disappeared at that point, but it was to go retrieve his friends' coats so it wasn't like he'd done it to purposedly postpone the potentially awkward moment when he'd have to face Grantaire.

As it happened, the artist remained too doppey to mumble more than a few words of thanks to his hosts, collect his coat and leave, the creases of the blanket still pressed into his cheek. Enjolras didn't remark to himself that he looked adorable. He didn't.

 

4.

Enjolras wasn't present the fourth time Grantaire dreamt about him, but it was the artist himself who informed him of his dream's content.

Les Amis were all gathered at the Musain around some tables they'd hastily pushed together. Papers littered their surface, flyers and maps and signs and speeches in piles that were carefully separated by half-empty mugs of coffee. As usual before a protest, the group was abuzz, orders and demands flying about, all of them met with satisfying answers and a smile. 

Enjolras was sitting a few paces away, going over the speech he was going to give: the organisation he worked for had finally taken note of Les Amis (Enjolras may have mentioned them three hundred times since he started working there), and his bosses had asked if they wanted to join them for the protest. Courfeyrac swore they'd been impressed by Enjolras' charisma, and they had offered him the opportunity to give the day's opening speech.

That was how he missed Grantaire's lack of engagement in the day's activities. Before the artist had stopped drinking, apathy wouldn't have been peculiar, but ever since he'd become sober, he'd shown considerably more interest in Les Amis' various causes. His soul-crunching cynicism had given way to a kind of sarcasm which, even though it was still irritating, was a lot easier to deal with and even enjoyable on Grantaire's best days.

However, today wasn't a good day at all. Enjolras saw it the moment he finally laid eyes on Grantaire. He hadn't heard the artist sidle up to him, hadn't even heard him clear his throat to catch his attention. It took Grantaire laying a light hand on his wrist for him to realise he wasn't alone.

The shadows under Grantaire's eyes had receeded a few months ago. As had the haunted look Enjolras had always deplored. Today, though, they were back in full force and made him drop his speech on the tabletop. Even his posture wasn't that of the new Grantaire: the hunched shoulders were too reminiscent of his old self.

"Are you alright?" Enjolras asked with narrowed eyes.

"Could I talk to you for a minute, please?" he mumbled, nervously looking away.

That definitely wasn't the reply he'd been hoping for. Enjolras stood up from his chair and guided them outside. He was anxious, frantic and worried. The cold March air vaguely registered.

"What's wrong?"

"Umm, I need to ask you something but I want you to keep an open mind and to swear you won't yell at me for wasting your time."

"Okay," Enjolras agreed with a raised eyebrow.

"Would you consider, maybe, not going to the protest today?"

"No." It was a knee-jerk reaction. He couldn't have held it back if he'd tried.

"That's how you keep an open mind?" Grantaire chuckled, bitter. He sounded a lot like the old Grantaire and Enjolras felt like he'd leapt back in time, the familiar impatience he'd felt at that behaviour returning in full force.

"You do understand why there's no way I'm pulling out, don't you? People are expecting me, expecting all of us, to show up. My bosses gave me the second-most important slot to speak, it's an incredible opportunity both for Les Amis as a group and for our message to be heard. If I don't go, I'm unreliable; if I'm unreliable, Valjean and Fantine will never call again. Today could be our chance to start making a difference on a larger scale, it's huge."

Enjolras took a deep breath. If he had slipped into ranting mode without noticing, he was more stressed out than he'd thought. Grantaire was just staring at him; Enjolras' fits of passion didn't impress him anymore.

There was a certain resigned sadness in Grantaire's eyes, though, like he'd been expecting Enjolras to brush him off but the dismissal still disappointed him.

"Why shouldn't I go?" Enjolras asked, loath to be the cause of that look.

"How about because I ask you to?" he shrugged, purposedly evasive.

"Grantaire."

"Because I dreamt about it, okay?" he blurted out. "It was... horrifying. Fuck, Enjolras."

The artist looked him right in the eye when he said that. He was dead serious. The raw fear in his eyes made Enjolras bite back the scathing retort that threatened to escape but he couldn't entirely suppress his aggravation. Grantaire had interrupted him because of a nightmare he'd had?

"Are you kidding? I should be getting ready right now, I still have a hundred things to do before we leave."

"Look," Grantaire sighed as he started pacing in front of him, his frustration obvious. "It's just one protest. You could be sick or have an emergency somewhere, noone would ever know."

"I am not pulling out of the protest because you had a nightmare, Grantaire," Enjolras said in what was, admittedly, a pretty patronising voice. "What, do you think it was a premonition? Are you psychic now?"

"No, I'm not!" the artist shouted, suddenly striding up to him so he was right in his face. "I'm just even more worried than usual, you prick!"

For a stunned second, Enjolras said nothing. He merely stood, his breathing as heavy as Grantaire's, transfixed by his friend's stormy blue eyes. So, so close.

"What was your dream about, then?" he eventually exhaled, just to break the tension.

"Like I'm going to tell you now? So you can call me stupid and throw my fears right back in my face? Thank you, I'll pass."

Grantaire took a step back and, when the wind bit into his skin again, Enjolras immediately missed Grantaire's warmth. How was he this warm? He wished it wouldn't have stopped; it had felt nice. Being surrounded by Grantaire felt nice.

"Was it a nightmare? Did something happen to me again?" 

"I'm not telling you, Enjolras."

"What about the others?"

"They weren't in my dream..."

"Just me."

"Just you." Grantaire's jaw stood firm, his eyes narrowed like he was daring him to question his sudden protectiveness.

Or maybe not so sudden, after all. The first time he'd become aware that Grantaire sometimes dreamt about him, it had been thanks to that nightmare where the artist had seemed terrified for Enjolras' safety.

"Why?"

"Enjolras," Grantaire sighed, his eyes dropping to the ground as he shook his head. "Just... be extra careful today, okay?"

Before he could think it through, Enjolras' hand reached for Grantaire's neck, gently craddling it. The artist froze, his eyes widening ever-so-slightly, but he didn't move away. Every point of contact was electric, and the air between them filled with static. That was new; and the warmth was back.

There was also something weird going on in his stomach; nerves, probably. He looked Grantaire square in the eye and nodded once, a solemn promise that he'd try his hardest to stay out of harm's way.

"Stay with me," Enjolras offered, his voice low.

He didn't have to think about it. Grantaire was jumpy, he was at his lowest since he'd become sober, and it was all because he worried about Enjolras. The least he could do was put his mind at ease.

"What do you mean?" Grantaire exhaled quietly.

"Stay with me today: you ride with me in the car, you stand with me on the podium while I give my speech, you march with me. Wherever I go, you come with. That way you can see for yourself that I'm safe."

It also presented the added bonus of being able to keep an eye on Grantaire. While it was true that his will had got considerably stronger, who knew what he was capable of when he was so anxious and jittery. Enjolras knew he'd feel responsible if his friend relapsed because he'd callously dismissed his concerns.

"Okay."

Enjolras dropped his hand so he could pretend he didn't see his friend's eyes getting misty or hear the way his voice broke on the single word. But letting go felt wrong.

Both his speech and the protest went off without a hitch, and yet Enjolras found himself reaching for Grantaire's hand several times during the day.

 

5.

The fifth time Grantaire had a dream about him, Enjolras heard about it at Joly's birthday party, in late April.

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's place was crowded, mostly by members of Les Amis but also by a few of Joly's colleagues and even some fellow alumni from med school.

Enjolras needed fresh air. His friends' place was large enough, but with so many people around, breathing was becoming difficult. He decided to head towards the balcony and weaved his way between strangers and friends alike.

The balcony had been this apartment's selling point; the beautiful wrought iron railings started in one of the bedroom and ran along the wall to the French window in the living room. It was too narrow to really hang out on it but it provided enough room for Bossuet to put some potted plants and small trees, creating a peaceful vegetal bubble in Paris' urban environement. 

Enjolras emerged on the balcony and immediately moved away from the French window so he could disappear from view. He let himself slide down the wall and sat down beside a deliciously fragrant orange tree and a couple of potted cypresses. He'd just closed his eyes to enjoy the semi-quiet when he heard people make their way outside on the other side of the trees.

"Ah, this is so much better! God knows I approve of Joly's taste in music but it's really, really loud in there." Enjolras, for one, agreed. He also recognised the voice as Jehan's.

"You're just too old." And that was Grantaire's amused laugh.

Things with Grantaire had been... strange. Truthfully, Enjolras wasn't even sure what things he was talking about, but a strange tension had appeared between them in the month since the protest. He was very aware that he was, at least in part, responsible for that awkwardness, but he had no idea how to make it better.

Neither of his friends could see him but Enjolras could tell they were right on the other side of the green wall that separated them. He could have said something to make his presence known; he didn't: hearing the muffled chatter of his friends was actually rather comforting and peaceful.

"Excuse you, I believe I'm younger than you, sir!" 

"That's right," Grantaire chuckled merrily. "I never said I disagreed, though."

"True," Jehan conceeded. "So, tell me about that dream you had. You haven't stopped smiling since I saw you this morning. It's amazing and slightly alarming. Was it tomorrow's lottery numbers?"

"Better than that." And yes, Enjolras could actually hear the smile in Grantaire's voice. It made him want to see it, too.

"Tell me," Jehan whined.

"Okay, okay. It's stupid, you know how dreams can get. And sometimes when you wake up, you don't remember what happened but the feelings remain, like fear or anger. You know what I'm talking about, right? Like when you dream about someone you know and their dream-self does something really shitty and when you wake up, you're pissed at them but you can't quite remember why?"

"Mmhmm."

"Well, this morning I woke up like everything was right in the world. Blissed-out."

"And you don't remember why? Aww, come on, R! You can't string me along like that and then not give me anything to go on!" Jehan whimpered.

"If you shut up for more than two consecutive minutes, maybe I could tell you all about how, last night, Enjolras held my hand and smiled at me like I was his entire world."

Enjolras' heart stopped in his chest, skipping a couple of beats before it started hammering against his ribcage in earnest. It was so loud in his ears that he almost missed the cooing noise Jehan made. He should have left. He should have left right then because he was unwittingly butting into a private conversation, but sheer shock was keeping him rooted to the spot. 

Enjolras felt... elated. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but it did sound like Grantaire was confessing something like infatuation. At any rate, he'd just understood why he'd been acting different around the artist and why the very sight of him triggered feelings in his stomach that he couldn't control.

"I know, I know, it's ridiculous," Grantaire continued, bashful, "and I sound like a twelve-year-old who just got his first crush." Enjolras could just picture him running a self-conscious hand through his mass of curls.

"Do you not know me at all, R? I live for that kind of thing. I find this so, so cute."

"We were dating, I guess? I don't know, in the dream I could tell that he liked me like we were boyfriends. We were just walking in a park, what a fucking cliché," he interrupted himself to bark out a laugh. "And we were holding hands and, yeah, Enjolras was perfect. As usual. He kept on smiling over at me, and he was looking at me... It was so intense, as if he was trying to stare right through me, except there was such... affection in his eyes."

"Did you kiss?" Jehan whispered, almost as if Grantaire were still asleep and he didn't want to wake him up.

"Not even, can you believe that?" Grantaire laughed again. "But it's okay because... Enjolras loved me, you know?" Enjolras' heartbeat picked up again, which was surprising because it very much felt like it was caught in a vise while it was trying to burst out of his chest.

Grantaire's voice had taken on a more wistful note at the end, as if the haze of the dream was finally lifting and he was coming back to a less desirable reality. Enjolras didn't like that tone one bit. He liked giddy Grantaire much better, wanted him to sound like this all the time, wanted to be the cause of it.

He started hyperventilating a little but brought himself back by sheer force of will; he had things to figure out and plans to make. He was so deep in thought that he missed Jehan and Grantaire's departure.

 

+1.

The sun was bright when they embarked on their journey home, and wasn't that a giant middle finger life was giving him, Enjolras thought as he sniffled for the third time in less than a minute. At least now, everything was blessedly silent save from the quiet sound of the tide behind them and his friends loading their bags in the van.

Promoting acceptance and providing information on the LGBTQ community at a music festival in Brittany had sounded like a great plan. And really, Enjolras ought to have been thankful to his bosses for recommending Les Amis de l'ABC to the festival's directors. He'd just never fathomed that activism would lead him to a metal music festival.

The problem wasn't the people, Enjolras had faith in the people; he'd had some of his most interesting conversations this year over that weekend. The problem was that the music had made him want to cry and, now that it was over, he could still hear three different angry guitar riffs playing on loop in his head.

Even Bahorel and Cosette, the only ones who'd been excited a month ago when Enjolras had announced that nine of them would be Les Amis' ambassadors at the festival, had spent the majority of Sunday groaning each time another set started.

And now Enjolras was getting sick. Joly had been right: in Brittany, even when the forecast called for sun, it was still likely to rain at some point in the day. In fact, it had rained five different times this weekend, fifteen-minutes monsoons every time. Enjolras had been too stubborn to bring anything that would've sheltered him from the rain and now he was paying for it. He could literally feel his metabolism slow down.

He was supposed to be the first driver back to Paris but, upon seeing his face, Courfeyrac volunteered to take his place. He readily accepted. Enjolras started drowsing in his seat before the sea had disappeared in the rearview mirror, his forehead leaning against the window.

Courfeyrac was humming under his breath, mindful of all his lethargic friends. Enjolras would have to thank Grantaire for his kindness, too: he really didn't have to run his fingers through his hair like this. It felt heavenly. Artists' hands: the reality more than lived up to the hype.

He just knew where to apply pressure, and he also knew to alternate between combing through Enjolras' blond waves and tugging on a few tendrils. It was the single most fantastic experience of Enjolras' life until Grantaire leant in to start placing soft little kisses on the crook of his neck. This was perfection and Enjolras couldn't help the little sigh that escaped his lips.

He grinned a little when he felt Grantaire chuckle against his throat. He'd get him back for that when he was in full possession of his senses again. Now, though, the artist was busy nipping at his jaw while a few curls tickled his cheek, hiding them from view.

"Is this alright?" Grantaire murmured against his skin.

"Mmhmm, yeah," he all but purred, his smile so wide he felt like his face was going to split in two.

Then Grantaire kissed his way up to his jaw and his ear, landing delicate pecks along its shell before taking his earlobe between his teeth and flicking his tongue out at it. 

"Grantaire!" Enjolras couldn't help but gasp, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"I think maybe we should stop while things are still PG in here," Grantaire said, placing a chaste kiss behind his ear.

This sentence deserved a hundred witty comebacks, but all of them required forming a full sentence and the artist had effectively rendered Enjolras incapable of that. "Yes," he eventually exhaled.

Grantaire sat back in his seat, leaving Enjolras breathless, hot and bothered. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He was very thankful the meditation techniques Combeferre had taught him actually worked.

Next thing Enjolras knew, Courfeyrac was gently shaking him awake. He startled a little, startling his friend in turn, who jumped backwards in his seat.

"Jesus Christ!" Courfeyrac squealed. "We're home."

"Oh. Okay," he mumbled sleepily.

He'd slept through the entire drive back, then. He must have been more tired and sick than he'd anticipated. He still dragged himself out of the van, squinting against the Parisian sun that shone in his eyes. They'd parked just outside the Musain, as it was the midway point from everyone's houses. They quickly scattered, knowing they'd see each other that very night to debrief with all the members who hadn't joined them on their trip.

Enjolras was just about to leave, bag in hand, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned around, slower than he would've liked. Grantaire was standing here, all tousled hair and rumpled clothes from sitting in the car so long, his backpack on his shoulders, ready to leave.

"Hey."

"Hey, can I talk to you for a second?" the artist asked, self-consciously crossing his arms on his chest.

"Of course." His voice was getting raspier by the minute. Chances were Courfeyrac would have to do the debriefing tonight because he'd be voiceless.

"So," Grantaire cleared his throat, but there was a lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you talk in your sleep."

At these words, Enjolras was drowned in a flood of memories. He felt himself blanch before his face got warm again. It had all been a dream. A figment of his imagination. A fantasy. Grantaire hadn't really done all these things. Disappointment and shame warred in his chest. 

Embarrassment was pretty strong, too, especially when he realised that all his friends must have heard him. He felt like crawling into a hole and staying there for the next hundred years. 

And how unfair was it that Grantaire got to remain unaware of his own dreams while, the second his subconscious drew him up, he confronted him about it? It was pretty damn unfair and Enjolras was having none of that.

"So do you," he retorted defensively. 

"Do I?" Grantaire asked, genuinely surprised.

"Quite often. It seems to be about me a lot."

"Oh," he said as he turned a charming shade of crimson. 

"Yes. Anyway, I suppose you wanted to talk about my dream?" Enjolras asked, drawing himself up to his full height, chin high. Anything to distract Grantaire from his blushing cheeks.

"Err, not really, no. I figured, I've been in your hair for two days straight so I was on your mind. And the setting, well, I've heard that having sex dreams just means you're frustrated about something, so."

"You weren't in my hair," Enjolras frowned. "You were with us to do a job and you did it brilliantly. All the merch you designed for the festival sold out. I saw you talk to that very aggressive guy for forty minutes and I saw him leave with Feuilly's flyer, the one with the ressources listed on it. And I dreamt about kissing you because I actually do want to kiss you."

There, he'd said it. It hadn't been the plan. It felt more like an ambush, really. Enjolras squirmed a little, brushing a lock of blonde hair away from his eyes then shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. He pointedly looked at his shoes as he worried at a piece of gum on the sidewalk and, after what felt like forever, he glanced up at Grantaire through his eyelashes.

The artist looked like he'd just been clubbed upside the head, his blue eyes wide. But he hadn't run away and he didn't look put-off, just... surprised. Enjolras read this as a good sign and decided to be more persistent. After all, he needed answers.

"Not what you were expecting, then?" Enjolras sniffled.

"No, I..." Grantaire started, his eyes widening like he couldn't believe he wasn't hallucinating. "I was going to tease you a little bit, maybe make you shout at me for being a dickhead... The usual."

"I haven't shouted at you in forever, though, have I?"

"No, you haven't." Grantaire sounded like he'd just realised. 

"Because you've changed," Enjolras said softly, not bothering to fight the fond smile making its way on his face. "And you talk in your sleep," he added, taking a step closer.

Grantaire still looked dumbfounded, but a smile was tugging at his own lips now, like disbelief was fighting against pure delight and disbelief was losing. His arm twitched like he wanted to draw it up but didn't dare, so Enjolras reached for his hand himself and intertwined their fingers. Delight was definitely winning now. Grantaire's smile was blinding.

Enjolras took the last step towards Grantaire and leaned in to turn his dream into a reality... then promptly shoved Grantaire away as he spinned around to sneeze. It was either that or make what had to be an unforgivable faux-pas for a first kiss. Enjolras could hear the artist chuckle as he fumbled in his pockets for a tissue, so at least he knew he wasn't mad.

"We probably shouldn't kiss. I think I'm sick," he said, facing Grantaire again. His throat felt like sandpaper.

Grantaire chuckled some more as he approached him again and relaced their fingers. Then he tugged on his hand and placed a lingering kiss on Enjolras' cheek, nuzzling at it before he withdrew.

"You know, I'm thinking maybe Freud was right and our innermost desires really do show up in our dreams," Grantaire smiled coyly. Enjolras rolled his eyes as he picked up his bag.

"I am in no state to demolish Freud and his stupid arguments so let's not bring him into this. Come back to mine: we need to talk and I need to sleep. You can stay awake and document my sleepy ramblings if you feel like it."

"I'll make sure to wake you up if they get as interesting as they were earlier."


End file.
